At the start of Creative Health and Wellbeing Week, I’m so chuffed to write the kind of post that happens so rarely: one that truly begins with “Once upon a time…”
My bid for Sanderstead Library has been confirmed as the winner. [Yay!]
We now begin a slow, inclusive and discursive process of shaping the building’s new life as The Story Sanctuary – a creative health and wellbeing hub that honours its legacy as a library while exploring the full potential of what that space could become – from elders to youngsters, from the hyperlocal Sanderstead community to wider Croydon communities of identity. In particular, my neurodivergent team, who I hope will lead in the space in warm, intersectional, and intergenerational co-creation.
It feels like the right moment to say it out loud, for me and for others, especially in the context of recent UK and world events: We are more similar than we are different – we all move through hurt and harm, healing and hope – and stories help us understand that.
I believe stories can help to keep us well.
I was grateful to speak at the Sanderstead Residents Association AGM last week, ironically just as I was sliding into a grim throat and ear infection (writing this now from under a duvet) and I’ve never told the story so poorly. Honestly, I was a bit mithered, I have little recollection of what I said and I’m not sure that it fully came across.
As a neurodivergent person, I could torture myself over that. But thankfully, my head’s pounding hard enough already, so I’m finding a bit of neutrality: maybe telling the story badly allowed for more space for question marks and potential I might have otherwise closed off.
A few residents came up afterwards with suggestions: “Do you mean maybe this…?” (including ideas like skill shares and materials swaps and so many of the things that I and others have already imagined), and so it was a joy to keep replying with “Yes!”.
I appreciated the honesty of one committee member who gently noted I was definitely pushing people out of their comfort zones. I acknowledge that, and I’m confident that their comfort will return once folks can see and feel the space and how we hold it.
The building is still about stories, but now, not just the ones we read. It’s about the ones we live, remember, and carry in our bodies. The ones that unfold when we make something with our hands or share something over food; the ones that only exist through co-creation.
Also – yes, this all sounds quite earnest – but there will also be lots of laughter, snacks, and probably at least one very questionable playlist. We’re planning for joy, too.
The news is fresh, and we have a lot of work ahead: a temporary licence, legal agreements, getting the community involved, and securing funding to give the place the attention it deserves.
But for now, I’m in a brief pause. If the building represents health and wellbeing, then that includes me. As I said the other evening, I’ll put the kettle on. But for the next few days, the water’s reserved for Lemsip. (This creative wellness revolution ironically starts with paracetamol, colouring-in will not cut it this time.)
Less haste, more speed: the doors will open again. We’re not in a rush. We’ll begin gently by listening and noticing: one kettle boil at a time.
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